A/N: ARE YOU READY to dive into the 1940s?

I cannot get this picture out of my mind. I wanted something different so here I am. There will be no entirely full fledged novel because one, I have way too many stories as it is. Two, people have already done these type of stories beautifully. Three, Star Wars fics of Anakin are my first love and priority. HOWEVER that isn't to stay this tale won't be a fleshed out piece. I still want to do it justice.

Looking at 10 or so parts in total.

This chapter starts more as a tell and ends with dialogue so hang tight.

I'm a millennial; I grew up with the Harry Potter series and I'm well aware Tom's eyes are brown. However, other actors eyes have been blue and I'm going with that. Christian Coulson WAS Tom. But, Origins of the Heir anyone? So good! And then there's Tom Hughes...

**Just as J.K Rowling once said, I consider the world of Harry Potter a completely separate world of fantasy from actual occultic practices and/or ties. Given this is in part Tom Riddles life which may veer into dark territory and is strictly a work of fiction. I do not condone any type of practice relating to the actual occult as it something to be taken very seriously nor will I ever. I know former practicers and it's not taken lightly.**

Reviews are as beloved as Dobby. RIP
Cheersx

Part I

August 18, 1942

Wools Orphanage

LONDON

She knew where she would find him.

As with any day in the summer until they both returned to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This never got any easier. As each year passed, he only withdrew into himself more and more...

In the beginning, they'd appeared as opposites. Yet even as small children, they'd found a commonality: solidarity. Their shared love for books slowly pushed them from their introverted complexes to a few social interactions. Unlike the exchange amongst the staff at the inferred—and distasteful— identity as a "the lone orphan". Even though each year they'd herd them out as such on Adoption Day.

Like branded cattle.

Forced out of their seclusion in each other common ground was found—quite literally, perched on the worn steps of Wools Orphanage. Dressed in their secondhand, presentable attire for the sake of propriety.

As the day uneventfully unfolded and the hours dragged torturously on, they'd pass the time reading through a donated collection of books from the local church. Silent but inwardly restless as the winds. Yet ever watchful as another whisper of a page flipped. Never scolded and properly postured. Her spindly legs remained formally folded and his crisscrossed over narrowed ankles.

They'd appraise their surroundings momentarily when another orphan was sifted. Once it was over, he'd loosen his tie and she'd shed her ribbons. Together they'd venture to the rooftops to immerse themselves in worlds much sought from illustrious authors. The contents of the book would be discussed with outlandish syrupy endings, condemned. Especially fairytales. Evidentially his attentions would shift to the local newspaper involving the global war as more countries joined the coalition to fight.

As the shadow of war loomed it hardened a recently widowed, Mrs. Cole. The two had learned on a personal spectrum. Weathered the hardships of the Great Depression that crested over from the Americas to parts of the UK. The staff alone had become intimately familiar with financial strife regarding the children's welfare.

Meals were soon portioned. The daily three servings were reduced to two, tea time included. To combat this they'd invent their own system. He'd hand off his stale bread and she an extra dose of porridge and root vegetable mash. Once their wood deliquesced from the fireplace's hearth come winter, the staff relocated their sleeping quarters to the main commons. Extra potatoes were shoved in each other's sacks to keep warm. From an outsider's perspective, it was hardly considered a companionship.

Yet such functioning for them—worked.

1938, a month after her eleventh birthday, their entire world was flipped on its axis. On a rainy afternoon on the 12th of August, a Professor Albus Dumbledore would greet their doorstep. Mysteriously concealed in the Highlands of Scotland was a supposed magical school. Introducing himself as one of the teachers, a new world was suddenly thrust upon them. Ripe for their parched, knowledgeable minds. They became further enmeshed once the charmed bricks of the Leaky Cauldron Alley, unveiled the wizarding community of Diagon Alley.

She a witch, he a wizard.

Such a profound truth had left the two in stunned silence. Even as they were introduced to a Ministry of Magic; a magical government slightly similar to Parliament overseen by a head Minister. Much to their chagrin, they'd observe the strange banking system: Gringotts Wizarding Bank run by surly goblins that handled their financials. The professor's twinkling soft eyes and zany robes, had kept her at ease with the shrewd creatures.

They'd speedily tunneled on hazardous tracks through caverns housing underground vaults. But one in particular piqued her curiosity as the wizard retrieved a velvet pouch teeming with startling gold, silver and bronze coins: Galleons, sickles, and knuts. Much to their overt discomfiture it was revealed as part of Hogwarts financial program vaults. Used for those deemed a necessity in impoverished backgrounds.

For a considerable part of that day her friend had taken each mystical venue in stride. Not the overly enthusiastic type—though he appeared drawn to each novel element—his disposition would alter after one dimly-lit disheveled shop...

"13 ½ long crafted from yew with a phoenix feather core. 11 inches of holly, containing a single feather from the tail of a... phoenix."

As posted on the shop, the wizened man Ollivander, had peppered sprightly hair that paired with an ostensibly, eccentric persona. As he examined their wands his eyes widened, considerably. Glancing out the squared window where their professor waited, he leveled them with a sharp scrutiny.

"My, my..." One unruly brow raised in surprise. "How curious, curious indeed. Feathers from the same bird. Siblings... By Merlin's beard..."

One glance at her friend shone a strange hunger merge with a shrewd gaze and a visibly rigid posture.

After they'd departed Ollivanders their wands were stored safely in their pocket. However, her friend's concentrated reverie remained unbroken. Even with the grotesque toppings selected by their professor at a parlor he'd treated them to called: Florean Fortescue's Creamery.

If she could just dispel the chill that-even now-crept into her bones from the instant their wands connected.

It came the moment wands were grasped. A sudden fork of light crackled through their fingertips and eclipsed the darkness. The sheer force blasted boxes from the shelves, startling the wand maker himself—before she'd felt it...

Icy tendrils coiled around her spine like a serpentine creature of novels. As if sharp incisors embedded her flesh, it jolted her psyche as nerves fused into liquid fire. Her agonized cry split the air as hot tears trailed a path down her lips. Yet the sensation lasted no more than a second.

It took a moment to drag her quivering limbs-akimbo-from the floor. Their shallow breaths adjoined, when their eyes met it hardly prepared her. His screamed out to her with searing intensity that practically peeled every personal thought, away. Those eyes a cobalt fire left her feeling raw—like he'd stripped the very barrier of thought with a single glance...

The two were informed to be ready for departure by the 1st of September to Kings Cross. Then the kindly wizard had taken his leave, sending her friend into full retreat. His presence became a ghostly apparition for the remainder of those weeks. Tangible over meal preps during which he'd kept distance.

Even when Mrs. Cole and Madam Martha escorted the lot to Sunday services. Hardly had she been able to focus in the pew. Questioning her salvation and her relationship choices. While he'd sat up by the parishioners until he'd back come to her, later on the rooftop.

Little had she known Ollivander's words would come to shape her experience at Hogwarts. Her first sight of the sprawling castle had stolen her breath. The halo domed windows beckoning them closer. Walls of limestone and rounded turrets soaring skyward with imposing grandeur. It was an entirely different realm, the starry skies infused with mystical elements seemingly honed in the walls itself. It was then the ravenous glint in her friend's eyes resurfaced, glimmering like the Black Lake they floated upon like a sea of glass.

The chill fused to her spine like sharp talons; a prominence of his touch that echoed beneath her flesh. It was as if he'd left his very signature upon her. Even as they made their way to a Sorting Hat charmed atop their heads to determine their houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin.

A lion. An eagle. A badger. And a serpent.

Bravery. Witts. Loyalty. Ambition.

She had been chosen as a Gryffindor: the house of the noble and brave. He had been sorted into Slytherin: the house of the cunning and ambitious.

Red and gold.

Silver and green.

A lion and a serpent.

A legacy rooted in the foundation laid by the Founders themselves: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. These four medieval witches and wizards' strong bloodlines set the premise for the magical stronghold it would become. Over the decades' brilliant wizards and witches would contribute to the castles' finesse. Leading to an expansion of academia to it's—present—revered prestige.

According to, Hogwarts A History.

This included The Hogwarts Express. The locomotive steam was accessed from platform 9 ¾. Located between platforms 9 and 10 at London's heavily trafficked Kings Cross station. She'd relished in the mechanics just as much as the oddity of Quidditch. The sport entailed flying brooms with goalposts shot through by a Quaffle. Hogwarts favorite pastime was not without it's dangers, however. Players had to contend with Bludgers—nasty buggers that inflicted serious injuries. The intensity centered on the Seekers catching ahold of a flittering golden ball called the Snitch. Whichever House caught it won the game.

Her friend considered such a sport uncouth. Admittedly it piqued her interests to consider tryouts—had a woman on the team been common. Thus, she'd digressed for the unfavorable attention it would draw. Instead she explored the endless mysteries of the castle it offered. From a bewitched Enchanted Ceiling in the Great Hall. The ethereal floating candles held in suspension, to talking portraits upon the walls dishing prompt greetings as staircases abruptly shifted. Some corridors were rumored to be haunted by ghosts of Hogwart's past, such as Nearly Headless Nick: Gryffindor Tower's ghost. The first time she'd seen his spectral presence it had taken adjusting. As well as the caretaker, Apollyon Pringle, who favored corporeal punishments on those who dare defy authority.

Gryffindor Tower held most of her many comforts from the rigors of academics, especially after a grueling study session. A lavish dormitory with gilded accents. Stained glass windows that provided a warm-toned respite of histories. Fine maroon drawings at the nights close, offering feathered pillows only dreamt as a luxury.

As well as mealtimes in the Great Hall.

Coming from an orphanage where food was often cold, soggy, and severely bland. Nothing could've prepared her that first evening for the elaborate spread before them. Endless variations of food, even unknown in the muggle world, conjured on golden plates. Served by the castle's house-elves whose culinary skills were nothing short of remarkable. Goblets charmed to refill so she never left parched for upcoming classes.

Astronomy: held in an actual tour at night that studied the constellations.

Transfiguration: a marvel of intricate mechanics.

Broom flight class: an exhilarating adrenaline high maneuvering a broomstick.

Charms: defying the law of gravity and levitation.

Herbology: a class set in a greenhouse housing wondrous medicinal and practical properties founded in various plants.

DADA (Defense Against the Dark Arts): focused on the skill of a dueling arm.

Potions: holding the most intrigue, elixirs were conjured with a mixture of fascination and trepidation with a cauldron.

Those had been just a few standout classes.

Further learning led to the vast library sheathed within the castle. Endless bouts of knowledge were had in such novelties. Evenings were her preference and where she could find her friend. Especially during a holiday Hogwarts celebrated to the fullest extremity. Another un-commonality for the two with joy often lost outside the protective wards, beyond.

The rise of a dark wizard, Gellert Grindelwald, would wish to enslave the race of muggles. Each Summer she returned to Wools put her safety into question in a homestead full of oblivious muggles. Meanwhile, he wreaked havoc wherever spotted. The startling similarities reflected in both worlds, with the muggle maniacal dictator that ruled: Adolf Hitler. A twisted man drunk off his own power wished to exterminate Jewish citizens as abominations. Back in 1939, they'd boarded the Hogwarts Express as orphans were evacuated on trains out of London. The orphanage was spared from the bombing of London or The Blitz. As their Hogwarts professor once explained to the head matron—and suspected magical influence—this allowed the two to return from their "studies abroad" without question. That year would remain a staple in history. The London she'd seen coming out of King's Cross hardly forgotten. Smoking husks left reflecting the villages of Grindelwald's sieges displayed in the Daily Prophet.

How prevalent evil was, even without magic.

Indeed, the 20th century proved to be a grueling period for such.

Through loaned owls, every two weeks new Grindelwald attacks were reported from her female colleagues. His rise to power had exponentially grown in the year of 1942. When a reading left her regrettably ill, she sought solace in the courtyards with her friend. Just as they resumed during term by the Black Lake, or Astronomy Tower where they'd observe the constellations. When he wasn't surrounded by his odious cohorts. With her status as a Gryffindor, never had they been outwardly untoward given her friend's intolerance to ill formality.

Though it was a very rare sighting when her friends composure did crack. The last time involved a delinquent orphan named, Billy Stubbs who had targeted her for fun. Stubb's rabbit was found hanging from the rafters that next day, she witness to the dark, malevolent beast that brokered his composure.

Which naturally brought the cave incident to mind. Upon request she'd kept a fair distance that dreary day, skipping stones to pass time. When they'd regrouped he'd drawn up a regaling tale hardly room for a further inquiry. The kids' response hinted of a dark turn their trip had taken. Glassy-eyes. Ashen faces. Erratic behaviors. Subsequently, young Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were later institutionalized.

She should've fled in the opposite direction, classified their relationship akin to a deformity. But then she was reminded of a stoic observant boy performing a simple, profoundly significant act. A linen handkerchief handed off to her during her first night in the orphanage. As discontent as he'd appeared, it would help curb her nightly grief leading to a face off against orphans ridiculing him as a freak. Soon he'd become woven into the very fabric of her livelihood. Her confession booth for all secrets such as her parent's brutal death linked to a former follower of Grindelwald's as his research later confirmed.

Unraveling the mysterious boy that encapsulated her life, only deepened her sympathy. Her friend's introduction to the world had become marred at birth. Abandoned. A baby with nothing but the name of his forbearers. This further reflected how high his trust was in regards to her. He'd given her a glimpse. Enough to follow him into the corners of the commons to take their meals. Even when she witnessed the shadows leech to him, cloaking the glacial front directed at others.

Great lengths he took to distance himself from an orphaned background. Ensured even his most worn apparel remained suitable. At Hogwarts, he sought perfection, excelling with top marks that earned the favor of many teachers including the Potions master: Professor Horace Slughorn.

With the afforded freedoms as they reached maturity, they found themselves venturing through town. He'd follow silently as a feigned, disinterested guard. She'd endure his occasional detours into the bowels of Knockturn Alley. The cobblestone streets that veered into a gritty alleyway left an itch to cast the black swan Patronus. Especially when an antique hovel had caught his apt attention enough to visit:

Borgin & Burkes.

As she recalled the lascivious stares she'd received from a few of the peddlers and Mr. Borgin himself—hopefully the final visit. Verging into womanhood wasn't easy, even as she bodily matured and garnered newfound attentions. Recent emotions had become complicated, bringing to light a terrifying revelation that left her nerves frayed. Even as she climbed the rickety stairway that groaned as if the weight of her burden was reflected.

At least she'd made it past Mrs. Cole. The head matron well into her early forties retained the mannerisms of a 1920s finishing school. Had she been caught it would've forced her to recite the proper etiquette of a woman's sacrilege. Particularly in her state of undress. She'd now become of age where threats from Madam Martha had the substantial reality of throwing her into a convent.

A nun was not something she aspired to be. Unbeknownst to Mrs. Cole, this wasn't the first time she'd reunited with her friend at a late hour. He'd tutted disapprovingly of the thin nightdress in the past but allowed it to continue. The fraying ends billowed as a warm draft swept through the weathered rafters. A familiar greeting. Scaling the spiral of stairs up the bell tower was quite a daunting task but kept her legs in shape. A well worth abandoned spire offered the most panoramic view above the sooty haze of smokestacks, boasting the most breathtaking sunsets in all of London.

As she shoved the rusted latch with the pad of her palm, the wooden door fell open with an audible creeeak. Folding up the hems of her nightie, she ascended the ornate stone to the small landing above. The skies became a fingerpainted canvas of a Monet painting. The colors were vibrant, a sea of dusty rose clouds while golden flares off the setting sun sank into the horizon.

There her friend lounged. His long legs dangled off the side without so much as a lick of fear. Dark blue eyes leaden with thick lashes shadowed pallid, angular cheekbones. Meticulous details Michelangelo chiseled into marble sculptures. Reminiscent off older prints of Roman art they'd pored through. An appearance that uniquely transcended his physical fifteen-year-old form.

Ebony curls free from a coiffed state fell across furrowed brows. The muscle in his jaw fell slack as he relaxed just so in her presence, "Do you know the meaning of the name Harven? It derives from the old Norse name Hrafn. It means raven."

"Raven?"

One brow arched as she settled next to him. The rough texture of brickwork rubbed against the soles of her bare, chilled feet. In an attempt to engage, she tapped her foot against his fabric Oxfords. "How did you discover this?"

His eyes raised and he looked at her. A small quizzical furrow to his brow spoke of hours pouring over this information. "Old Norse sagas. Not necessarily history but memoirs. I was reading about the old Scandinavian culture. An excerpt of a wizard's account on runes." He shook his head with a small, chiding smirk. "Not particularly memorable. Not your cup of tea, anyways. But raven... it's rather ironic given the shade of your hair."

Her dark, inquisitive eyes met his. She couldn't help but tease with a playful nudge. The deep hue of his gaze only intensified their similarities, apt genetics that orchestrated arranged marriages. "You know, you're starting to sound like Professor Binns," she quipped. Althoughwas anything but the ghostly History of Magic teacher.

His unique way of flattery felt like the charismatic Tom Riddle girls strived for at Hogwarts. Until he realized her undressed state then. A flicker of disapproval surfaced with a roll of his eyes. "Harven Potter," he chided, "ever quite the scandal if caught. Mrs. Cole would tan your hide for less."

"Oh, Tom, it's not like I'm a lady of the night." She rolled her eyes and crossed her ankles. "This is hardly uncouth given my company from practical infancy." A hushed laugh followed. "You remain ever the perfect gentleman."

"Well, if you're not careful it could tarnish your reputation and mine. And that I cannot allow." He straightened himself and the muscle in his jaw twitched.

She'd, unintentionally, irritated him.

"Are you honestly angry with me? It's not like I'm buck naked for Merlin's sake." She sighed, exasperated. "Dare I say Witchers of the Month?"

His eyes flashed with ire as he replied sharply, "Enough to be sent to a nunnery, Harven. We are not mere children anymore; your attributes have certainly changed. It's unbecoming of a lady like yourself. If someone like Billy Stubbs saw you in such dressings—" He inhaled sharply and to Harven's surprise, she sensed an underlying covetousness. "Well, your lack of decency would be the least of our problems..."

A shadow fell under his eyes as the last of his words eclipsed; a dark promise. As if remembering himself he got to his feet, straightening out the worn lapels of his uniformed blazer. A button fell loose from the sewn lining. "We are soon to start our fifth year at Hogwarts. My objective as Prefect cannot be compromised. You should know better, Harven, especially being of fifteen years."

Ah yes.

A month ago they'd celebrated it after he'd received his Prefect badge in the post. Certain savings she'd suspected from school accomplices. Treated to her favorite bookstore in Diagon Alley. She'd purchased Tales of Beedle the Bard; a storyteller from the 15th century whose wizarding life remained a mystery. Though Tom had looked dismayed at the purchase, he'd paid nonetheless. He'd even listened to one tale before retiring for the night.

Harven was instantly on her feet, the hurt like a serrated blade as if she'd been scolded by Mrs. Cole herself. The icy presence she'd felt as a child coiled inside, steeling her features and breathing tenacity into her voice. "So it has not been above your attention then?"

Tom squared his jaw, tongue against cheek as he mulled over her words. He stared out into the horizon as stars illuminated the night skies with tiny pinpricks of light. "You'll need to be more, specific. My patience thins by the minute, Harven."

Harven gathered her courage and took a step closer, her fists clenched at her sides. "What am I to you, Tom? Am I just there for convenience? A fool to believe more than a passing fancy?"

Tom clenched his jaw as if he'd expected this exact answer and averted her gaze. His eyes darkened as they swept past her shoulder from meeting the intensity of hers. "If you're insinuating some sort of petty fondness, then yes, you're mistaken," he replied quiet but firm. "Don't be foolish, Harven. My ambitions extend beyond the conventional life of a laborer, a housewife, or...the responsibilities of children."

Harven felt the weight of rejection drop into the pit of her stomach. She'd never found herself the novelist gothic beauty equivalent to the stapled Blacks, Rosiers, or Lestranges. Nor did she possess the fair seraphim genetics like that of the Malfoys. Hardly did she consider herself vain, either. Possessing her mother's soulful eyes akin to emeralds with characteristic freckles across a pert nose. Her thick curls framed a widow's peak and her father's strong chin softly rounded her femininity.

She thought herself quite pretty. In fact, Tom wasn't the only one to have a wavering perusal. Even his band of followers stole their share.

Tom had never absorbed himself in such vanity other than the natural grooming. Whether he feigned awareness girls fawned. He'd always carried a pleasant mint-shaving butter and hint of musk. The signature of his presence. The comfort of home and dearest to her alone.

Still, she refused to succumb like a distressed damsel so he could exploit her weakness when tensions escalated again. Though damned if she did and damned if she didn't, really. "Very well, forgive me. I think I'm going to retire, early. Goodnight, Tom."

Clenching her teeth she retreated, peeling her gaze from that penetrating stare. Even as those eyes practically burned a branding into her backside. One had to have thick skin to spar with the likes of Tom Riddle. Because of their bond she was the one daring enough to do so.

It was several seconds before the door fell behind her. Harven was bidded with a quieter voice that carried off into the winds, he a silent shadow blending into the darkness of his own making. "Goodnight, Harven."

NOTES:

Time eras such as the 1940s fashion and mannerisms I tried to follow to a T as I do believe it's important for any timelines explored and makes it much more immersive.

With Toms menial means, and due to the war, clothes were made more simple and cheaper. Leather was scarce then so Tom would've worn fabric oxfords for shoes. Which I find very interesting.

When researching,"Lady of the Night," back then it meant prostitute.

Also, this was before Tom really discovered more of his heritage hence why such details were Harven is not aware quite yet of his Parseltongue. He's managed to keep that from her quite sneakily.

*Reviews' are so much love :)

Cheersx

The continuation of this story can be found on Wattpad or A03 under the new title: The Riddle's Potter